


Brabble

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some people, even the morning crossword can be an argumentative challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brabble

**I own nothing. Many thanks to Joodiff for the beta.**

**For the lovely OHT ladies. *Hugs* :)**

* * *

“Seventeen down is wrong,” observes Grace, peering over his shoulder at the morning paper, the cup of tea in her hand steaming gently and fogging up her glasses as she takes a sip.

His reply of “What?” is typical of the hour, brusque and impatient as he runs his finger down the clues column, stopping at the appropriate line.

“The capital of Macedonia is-”

“-not Zagreb,” she informs him helpfully, wiping the lenses on the old pyjama top of his she’s long since purloined for her own use.

There’s a touch of irritable demand in his tone as he asks, “Are you sure?”

She doesn’t rise to it, instead just smiles sunnily at him as she offers a cheerful, “Of course I am. I’ve been there.”

“Where?” His eyebrows draw together as he regards her with strained tolerance, seemingly trying to gauge just how awake and mischievous she’s feeling as she stares back at him, deliberately dragging out her answer. Apparently it’s too much for his liking though, given the way he looks down again, pointedly redirecting his attention to the only partially completed crossword.

“Skopje, in Macedonia. The capital, in fact.”

His eyes narrow just a little as he concentrates studiously on the paper and Grace hides her grin. Winding him up is a sport she never tires of, particularly not first thing in the morning when she very definitely has the advantage.

“I’ve been to Zagreb too,” she adds, pausing for a moment before continuing with, “which is the capital of _Croatia_ ,” just to needle him some more.

“Whatever,” he mutters, predictably surly in his decaffeinated, early morning haze. “They were all the same place not so long ago anyway.”

“Hardly,” she replies breezily, but – watching the indicative way his pen is very cleanly and precisely scratching in the new letters and not at all keen on the all-out war the abrupt lettering heralds – she leaves the topic for the moment, instead meandering over to the counter, intent on making herself some breakfast.

“When?” he asks suddenly, catching her off guard as she rummages in the nearly empty breadbin. They are definitely going to need to go shopping today. Joy.

It appears there’s just enough for both of them though. “After university. I went travelling for a while. Toast?”

“Please.” He turns his head, glancing over at her inquisitively. “On your own?”

“No.” Back to him as she opens the fridge and searches for the marmalade she deliberately keeps the sentence short, knowing full well his curiosity won’t be able to stand it and hoping to redirect his early morning grumpiness.

She’s right; it takes him hardly any time at all to impatiently come back with, “Well? Who with?”

“Simon Abbott.”

“A man?” he sounds genuinely surprised, as though he’d fully expected to hear that she’d gone off adventuring with a female friend or roommate.

She really can’t help herself. “Simon is generally a male name, yes.”

“ _Grace!_ ”

She leans casually back against the counter as she waits for the toast, the picture of complete, easy serenity. “Yes?” she queries, gazing at him innocently.

Silence falls. His pen goes back to doodling indecipherable squiggles in the margins, a sure sign that he’s deep in thought. Grace idly wonders how long she will have to wait for the inevitable next question.

“Boyfriend?”

The hint of accusationin his tone as he voices the single word suddenly irks her though, makes her reply far less gentle and reticent than she intended. “Fiancé.”

Any attempt to remain blasé and indifferent about the whole topic suddenly vanishes as he abandons his squiggles and looks up at her, the pen dropping from his fingers to land with a soft thud on top of the newspaper as he twists his body to the side, his entire focus shifting to her.

“Fiancé?” the word sounds strange, almost bitter on his tongue, as though he can’t quite believe her.

In fact, he looks genuinely stunned, she thinks, a little startled by his reaction. “Yes.”

Not as startled, though, as she is when he bluntly demands, “As in, you were going to marry him?”

His tone is harsh, angry even and she wonders how the conversation seems to have deteriorated quite so quickly. There’s something else in his expression though, she notices. A hint of jealousy and something that looks a lot like hurt. “I was,” she agrees, keeping her voice deliberately light, “but I didn’t.”

“But you _were_ going to!” It’s a definite accusation.

Grace sighs, unpleasant memories resurfacing. “Maybe once, but that was before he left me stranded in the middle of Ankara while he ran off with an Italian girl we’d met two days before.”

For a moment, he looks utterly affronted on her behalf, but then his face changes, the jealousy winning through. Behind her the toaster clunks, spitting the heated bread out and she turns away to deal with it, supressing a sigh of frustration as a frosty silence descends on the room.

She can hear him muttering to himself, and though it’s hardly a new occurrence, the indistinguishable words cause a flare of real anger in her that she’s hard put to explain, to understand even.

“Why does it even matter?” she snaps angrily into the silence, fetching plates down from the cabinet with perhaps just a little too much force. “It was all a very long time ago now.”

“Why does it _matter_?” The sheer amount of incredulity he manages to pack into such a short sentence would no doubt amuse her if she wasn’t so riled. “Why does it _matter_ that you were willing to marry this… this Simon Abbott prick – who obviously didn’t even love you – but you won’t marry _me_?”

Ah, clarity.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry you,” she reminds him, as gently as possible.

“Yes you did!” his expression is outraged, her refusal evidently still a sore point.

She lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. This is an argument that could go on for days. Already has done, in fact. “Peter, I-”

His tone rises steadily with each word. “I was there, Grace – I think I remember it!”

Against her will, she feels the rest of her patience evaporate. “And you’re _still_ not listening to me, are you? What I _said_ was I wouldn’t run away with you and get married at a moment’s notice, _not_ that I wouldn’t marry you.”

“It’s the same damn thing,” he shouts, temper getting the better of him.

Slamming his plate, and the jar, down in front of him – on top of the crossword, just to irritate him further – she glares back, furious. “It’s not even close! And if you ever actually listened to anything I say, you’d know that.”

“Except you never actually say anything that’s simple and to the point, do you? You’re always going round and round in bloody circles trying to give me a headache.”

“ _I’m_ trying to give _you_ a headache?” she demands, deliberately lowering her voice to illustrate her point. He glowers, she scowls, and a stony silence once more falls between them, the only sounds those of spreading marmalade and crunching toast as they turn to deliberately ignoring each other. They are so practiced at it now that they spend only a few moments stewing over their mutual infuriation before their thoughts are inevitably drawn away in other directions.

Boyd is apparently trying to read the clues that are half hidden, obviously refusing on principle to move his plate and give her any sort of satisfaction, while Grace turns her mind to more proactive things – creating a shopping list and pondering a host of chores that really can’t be put off any longer.

A peaceful sort of harmony slowly develops, stretching softly between them as they both calm down, the icy tension dissipating into the gentle warmth of the morning, neither of them willing to ruin an entire Saturday. Time slips by, the toast is eaten and the coffee and tea are replenished. The crossword remains untouched though, Boyd instead perusing the news headlines as Grace scribbles her list on a scrap of notepaper.

It takes a while, but eventually he speaks. “Grace?”

“Hmm?” She glances up, finds him considering her contemplatively, quite clearly very deeply lost in thought. “Yes?” she prods, when he continues to simply stare at her and say nothing.

He smiles softly, as though he’s hiding a secret he’s particularly delighted with. Leaning his head on his hand he continues to gaze steadily at her, making her wonder if he’s planning on speaking any time soon, or is merely just trying his hand at irritating her once again. “So if I asked you when and where…?”

She holds his gaze, feeling warmth and happiness envelope her, wrap around her. “Yes!”

He doesn’t waste any time, has never believed in the concept. “When and where?”

“I’ll think about it and let you know,” she tells him, half because she’s serious, and half just to see the look on his face.

She’s rewarded with a wide, insufferably smug smirk and a gleam in those deep dark eyes that tells her he knows exactly what she’s doing. “Okay,” he replies easily, calmly, quite content to wait as long as needs be now that he has his answer.

“Okay then,” she agrees, returning to her list.

The silence falls again, perfectly easy this time as she deliberately focusses on finishing her task.

“What’s the next one then?” she eventually asks, stretching her bare legs out under the table and lazily running her toes down the length of his shin.

He scans the clue and looks up at her, eyes betraying his amusement as he speaks. “Twenty-three across – to argue loudly about something inconsequential.”

“Very funny,” she retorts, poking his foot with her own. “What is it really?”

His laughs softly as he leans back in his chair and gazes sedately at her. “I just told you! Seven letters, B something A something, B something something.”

Getting to her feet Grace moves to stand behind him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she glances down at the page. It seems he isn’t making the clue up at all. Her fingers flex and knead, working the muscles at the base of his neck as she thinks, mulling the clue over and searching her memory.

Boyd turns his head, resting it against her arm and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her left hand, lips lingering over her ring finger. Her fingers tighten momentarily on his shoulders, squeezing softly before she steps closer, one arm sliding around his neck as she leans down over him and plucks the pen from his grip, chin propped against his collarbone as she scrawls in the appropriate letters.

Reading aloud, he sounds sceptical, “Brabble?”

Resting her head against his she nuzzles his cheek affectionately. “Mm, it’s a word from the early fifteen hundreds.”

“If you say so,” he sighs. “Next?”

Grace scans the page. “Month in which the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday is celebrated.”

“October,” he supplies, stealing the pen back again to fill in the appropriate boxes.

“Sounds good to me,” she agrees. “I love autumn colours. Sometime around the seventeenth?”

He turns his head, captures her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. “I’ll be there.”


End file.
